


Woolgathering

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cruelty, Cuddling, First Kiss, Gaslighting, Intimacy, M/M, Overcoming Fear, Softness, childish imagination, closeness, defeating evil, evil beasts, fairytale AU, patpong au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Let me come with you,” is all the boy says.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“You will be useless to me.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I will hardly be useless,” Will exclaims. “I have a pony and a sword, good wits about me and a dog’s sense of direction. I will guide us home if we get lost.”</i>
</p><p>A fairytale imagining of one Will Graham, from the series <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4208799">Patpong</a>. We highly recommend you read that series first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for the incredible [CosmicCluck](http://cosmiccluck.tumblr.com/)! She imagined a beautiful and frightening world of fairytale imaginings for our lovely Will. Think "The Fall" for [Patpong](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4208799). These are the thoughts of a boy who wants to be the hero for the man he loves, the man who saved his life.
> 
> This truly won't have the impact it should if you read it standalone without [Patpong](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4208799), but feel free to enjoy it as a silly fluffy thing, if you haven't.

He had been told never to go into the forest. Not alone, not with guards, not even to take a shortcut through to the neighboring kingdom. He had been told, by his mother and father, by his friends and subjects, by the servants that whispered in the kitchen when he snuck down there to steal a snack, and yet Prince Hannibal never listened.

_Courage_ , he insisted, _was not the lack of fear, but the ability to overcome it_.

Oh, if only the silly young prince knew just how often courage and stupidity stood hand in hand, perhaps he would not have walked into the forest that day.

Perhaps if Will had not been riding by on his pony, the stubby little creature freshly broken and gaited, he would not have seen the prince venture into the forest alone. Perhaps if he had not followed, neither of them would have ever been seen again.

He knows the prince from a distance, now as he always has. So far from his life that he could not envision his face or his manner, but now to see him, Will knows him by heart. A rich tapestry of bright colors, striped and squared, makes up his clothes. He needs no crown, for his hair is golden enough without.

And the woods are so very large.

And the woods are so very dark.

Will turns his pony to follow, bouncing hard against its back.

“Prince!” he cries out, but the prince doesn’t stop, taking big hard steps up the path to the woods. It only goes so far within, before the shadows consume it. “Prince!”

Only when he’s so near that he can lay a hand upon the first tree of countless number does Prince Hannibal turn to face him. His eyes are red, like the sky just before the sun burns away on the horizon, like the embers Will stirs at night, sparking bright. Will meets his gaze and holds it, fearless and afraid, all at once.

“Leave me,” Prince Hannibal says. “My business is none of yours.”

“Of course it is,” Will says, brows furrowing. “I saw you go into the forest. If you never come out again, I will be the last to have seen you alive.”

“So?”

“So,” Will continues, leaning forward on his pony. “If I come with you, we will certainly return, together. But if you go alone, now, I will ride my horse over fief and field and tell everyone in the village where you have gone, and they will find you before you can get even a mile into the trees.”

The Prince looks exasperated, eyes hooded in his displeasure and boredom before he finally gestures - with a magnanimous motion - for Will to elaborate on his scheme.

“Let me come with you,” is all the boy says.

“You will be useless to me.”

“I will hardly be useless,” Will exclaims. “I have a pony and a sword, good wits about me and a dog’s sense of direction. I will guide us home if we get lost.”

Prince Hannibal frowns even more, and Will wonders what would move him to raise his voice at all to the boy-who-is-not-a-boy. He is a Prince, noble and regal and proud. What could he want with someone like Will?

All the things he offered.

“You know nothing of my life,” the Prince contends. “You know nothing of my task.”

“Tell me then,” Will says, before he has sense to stop himself, “and I’ll know.”

He can all but hear the wheels turning, the manifold cogs inside the Prince’s thoughts. Will’s pony snorts and paws the ground, but Will lays a hand against his neck to quiet him. Prince Hannibal watches this, too.

“Do you promise to run if I tell you to run?” Hannibal asks. “This business is not your own. It is my duty to uphold. I’ll allow you along if you promise me that - to run, if I tell you to run.”

Will considers the deal, and wonders if he can’t, with his clever mind, wheedle free of such an ask when the time comes for Prince Hannibal to tell him to go. He doesn’t want to go, running is hardly brave or worthy. Perhaps, he thinks, he will find a way to change the young Prince’s mind.

“I will run,” he says, “when you tell me to run. But will you ride with me until we must?”

The Prince’s brow soothes from the frown he had pushed into it, and he allows a sigh of resignation. The boy will come, and he will have a horse for faster travel, and another sword, should swords be needed, and a good sense of direction to get them home - though the Prince would hardly tell this boy that he has no intention of returning home. He will be company, too, on a frightening journey, and that is something money cannot buy.

Hannibal steps away from the woods, but makes sure to take his time as he does, lest the boy think him afraid. He raises his chin and narrows his eyes, just as he was taught. They widen again when Will laughs as his pony lowers to the ground, one foreleg and then the other, one back leg and then the other.

The little birds at the edge of the forest echo the sound of Will’s delight.

Prince Hannibal approaches carefully, and slides to sit behind Will, settling into place.

“Would you prefer me to sit in back, Prince?” It’s hardly becoming for a Prince not be first.

“No,” Hannibal answers, grasping Will as the pony pushes to stand again. “This way I can protect you if anything comes upon us. Follow the path until the sun disappears behind the castle, and then we’ll know we’re there.”

“Where are we going?”

“You need not know.”

For now, Will must not know.

So they go, on Prince Hannibal’s word alone. Will leads his pony true, perhaps he does have as good a sense of direction as a hunting hound. Never once does he trip and never once does he falter, the little steed walks true with his riders upon him.

Before them, the sun hangs high over the castle yet, and Will sighs as he rolls his shoulders in a gentle shrug.

“I heard there lived a boar in these woods,” he says after a while. “Massive and frightening, with bristles of steel and eyes of blood. I heard he ate any man who came near, and took every child to his lair to keep for cold winter months.”

“From whom did you hear this?”

“The boys who left to find it.”

“How could they tell you if it were true?”

“They told me by their absence,” Will says, and this is enough for the Prince to quiet, so Will says more, to distract from the frightful shadows and flaming sun, from the feel of the Prince’s arms snug around his waist. “I saw them one day, brave and strong. Fearless and determined, they said they would end its terrible dominion and then…”

“And then?”

“They were gone. As if they were never born at all.”

Prince Hannibal holds to Will a little tighter, as the woods around them thicken. Their trunks fatten and their limbs stretch, and shadows dance beneath the pony’s hooves, until darkness blankets their path. The birds are like the boys, their voices falling silent, one by one by one, until finally Will asks, as the sun touches the parapets of the castle far away:

“Will you tell me now why you are here?”

“Perhaps I should,” Prince Hannibal agrees. “It is a cruelty to bring you further and not tell you the truth. Your bravery has impressed me, but I won’t see you imperiled. What is your name?”

“Will,” he says.

“Will, I too seek the boar.”

He pulls his pony to a slower pace, but does not dare stop him. Heart racing in his chest, Will’s hands tighten on the reigns. He swallows and the click in his throat is nearly painful.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I say,” Hannibal answers, his face more shadowed than even the woods as Will looks at the Prince over his shoulder. “I have heard, from the castle, the sobbing of scared boys and girls who have wandered into the woods - some fearless of what lies within, but many misguided and lost. He calls to them, and tells them that their parents await. He makes them come to him, and I hear their wails. And then silence,” Hannibal says, “and that is worst of all.”

Will shivers again, he doesn’t turn to look at the young Prince. He knows the fear in the silence, too. He thought he was the only one scared of it and what it meant. Silence makes as many promises as it breaks, and Will has had enough broken promises in his life. He shakes his head.

“He will take you, too.”

“He won’t.”

“You’re just a boy,” Will tells him. “You’re just like me, and you’re scared of him.”

“And I will face that fear and conquer it,” Prince Hannibal says proudly. “And I will stop his evil reign over my kingdom and the next and the next. He cannot take more than one child at a time, and if he takes me, the Prince, surely he will not want for more. We will strike a bargain.”

Will makes a little sound, but it sounds so afraid. He swallows it down and sets his jaw, to seem as firm as Prince Hannibal himself. “What business does a boar have with bargains?”

“I need no help, no friends nor family. I chose to allow you along, but I could have gone alone,” the Prince reasons. “There is strength in solitude and strength in me. I will be enough to sate him, so long as I exhaust him first.”

“Exhaust him?”

“I will not go easily,” Prince Hannibal smiles, and it lifts his voice and eyes alike. Will watches him a moment more before turning back to face the path ahead. The sun is nearly fallen beneath the castle’s crenulations now, and every thump of hooves against the forest floor makes Will’s heart beat faster.

“You’ll fight him.”

“And slay him, if I can. I’ve killed many wild pigs before, and feasted on their flesh. And if I cannot defeat him, I will weaken him at least, and when he satisfies himself on me, he will hunger for others no longer.”

“You seem so sure,” Will whispers, and the Prince straightens his shoulders. 

“Keep riding forward,” Prince Hannibal tells him. “A few feet more and then you should wait, I’ll go forward alone.”

“No,” Will insists. “I’m coming with you.”

“You promised me.”

“I promised to run when you said,” Will reminds him. “I will not run from nothing.”

“Where does your bravery come from?” Prince Hannibal asks Will suddenly, and the younger boy tilts his head at the question. “I have never met anyone who would go forth when all others would hide.”

“Where does yours come from?” Will asks him in turn.

The pony slows as the light begins to dim, hooves clopping heavy against the uneven ground. He ducks his head and snorts, ears twitching.

“From doing what’s right,” Hannibal finally says, “even at risk to myself. It would be wrong to sit in the far-away castle and listen to others be silenced. It would be wrong to pretend as if I didn’t know what the boar does in these woods. Others will suffer, more and more. It will never stop unless I stop it.”

Will rubs his pony’s neck as he comes to a stop, easing the flickering muscles beneath warm, soft fur.

“You knew someone who was taken, don’t you? Someone close to you, closer than the boys and girls in the village. Someone you loved.”

The Prince draws a breath and without a word, Will knows he guessed right. Sometimes he does that, he can look at someone and know what hurts them. He can see their wounds as if they were carved in blood, dark and damp across them. He starts to apologize but the Prince rests his cheek against Will’s shoulder, and Will can’t find breath to speak.

“Yes,” Prince Hannibal says, and nothing more.

Will forces the pony onwards, only because he knows he must. He wants to take this young man, this Prince with so much on his shoulders and such weight on his heart, and bring him somewhere safe. His heart has always been too large, his mind too quick.

“Stop,” Prince Hannibal says suddenly, and Will jerks the reigns. The pony snorts his displeasure but doesn’t move further. Within, the forest already feels colder, somehow thicker. There is a smell that lingers, but Will can taste it more than he can sense it. It tastes cloying rot, like mold, like something left in the rain too long.

It tastes like terror. 

It tastes cold.

Will breathes it into his lungs and he feels himself wheeze it out again, as though a thousand little voices are screaming for help through his mouth. Only when Prince Hannibal turns his cheek against him and whispers _breathe_ can Will fill his lungs again.

His pony stamps his hoof and snorts, tossing his head and flicking his tail. Will tries to quiet him as Hannibal slides free, long legs bending as he slips low to the ground and stands again. He looks to Will, and again their eyes meet - Will the light beyond the forest, and Hannibal’s eyes as dark as that primordial place itself.

“You promised,” Hannibal reminds him.

“I did,” Will whispers.

“Wait for me,” Hannibal asks.

“I will.”

Will swears, for a moment, that the sun grows brighter. It must have moved backwards through the sky, parted clouds and trees alike, because when Prince Hannibal smiles, he can feel it. Warmth in his cheeks and all across his arms, light flooding through him to chase away the shadows.

“I will,” says Will again, and with that, Hannibal turns towards the woods.

There is a clearing, but like no clearing Will has ever seen. It is not lush with tall grass; there is no babbling brook within. The plants have been smothered, grey and stained. No sun has reached this place in a very long time. The fabric of the land is painted scarlet and white and Will looks away as a strange shame overcomes him.

Prince Hannibal ventures forth, fearless, his hand on his sword.

And when a third voice rises, neither that of Will or that of his Prince, the trees shudder and their leaves turn away.

“Well, well, _well_. _Who_ has come to _see_ me?”

Prince Hannibal doesn’t answer. Will doesn’t speak. Beyond, there is another voice, small and broken, and it sounds like emptiness itself. It makes Will feel sick. He tries not to breathe but he has to, and his lungs howl with the many mingled voices of the scared and broken children who gave their voice to the darkness.

“Won’t you tell me your name?”

Will wonders how a boar, so brutal and cunning, could sound so strangely human. It is a voice that sounds familiar, it sounds like something and someone Will could know. The creature he imagined did not have a voice. It had nothing but bloodied tusks and spiny back and red eyes. Prince Hannibal stands encircled in shadow, and Will breathes with the voices of the fallen children, as the boar finally steps into view.

The hulking creature's bristles rise and fall like waves stirred with every breath, its hunched back taller than Will astride his horse, who whines high in fear. White as the ice that crusts the lake in winter and just as impenetrable, the beast's hair flashes brightly where the light strikes sparking. A great flat nose, smeared with scarlet, huffs grey clouds of dank breath into the air. Pale eyes rolling wild, the boar drops its head low and drives a tusk against the ground. It wields a pair above and a pair below, each as long as Will's forearm from elbow to fingers, honed sharp as knives on trees and stone and the bodies of little children.

It need not gore them, tear them to pieces and break their bones. It could swallow them whole if it liked. But they have heard the sobs and cries, they have heard the wailing silence. Will swallows hard.

Surely even the most savage beasts of the wild take no pleasure from torment.

But this one, this one does.

"Hannibal," the Prince says, watching the boar as it watches him in turn. "I am the Prince of this land."

" _Hannibal_ ," groans the boar, tail flicking in piggish delight. "I do _wonder_. What could bring a _Prince_ to see a _pig_?"

The little Prince does not falter, he does not step back from the creature. He lifts his chin and stands proud, and Will wishes with all his might that he was at his side holding his hand, facing down this evil together. But he promised, and so he sits astride his horse and he does not move.

“I came to ask you to leave my forest,” Hannibal calls proudly. “On behalf of my kingdom and the kingdoms surrounding, I want you to leave this place, and take your evil with you.”

There is a silence. No birds to fill it with twittering song, no breeze to push the leaves against each other. Silence. That same horrible lack of sound after the little sobs and little screams end. And then a whine, like a broken door on old hinges, shrieking long and loud enough to hurt, before it breaks into a breathy sound, and Will realizes the hulking beast is laughing.

“You want me to _leave_?” the boar asks, between the shrieks of malicious amusement. “ _You_ want _me_ to _leave_?”

“Yes,” whispers Hannibal.

"Why _should_ I leave?" the big beast finally asks, as its laughter falls to a snort. Each lumbering step pushes grey grass and cold mud between its cloven hooves, until the boar is so close to Hannibal, its hot breath stirs his golden hair. Will tries not to imagine that in two swallows, if that many, the boar could devour the Prince.

He tries not to imagine the snap of bone like tinder or the wet smack of flesh.

He tries not to imagine the Prince silenced, and in this alone succeeds. Surely the Prince is too brave to be eaten. Surely the Prince is too strong to be hurt.

Hannibal turns his head to the tusked maw grinning so close, his feet planted in the boggy soil. "A trade," the Prince says.

"A _trade_."

"This for that. Myself, for you to go, and never again hurt the little children of the village."

"You're _hardly_ enough for a _snack_."

Hannibal's jaw sets. "Would it not please you, pig, to see me gone? You do not eat us because you need it. You eat us for the pleasure you take from our pain. You will leave the kingdom without a leader."

"Your parents -"

"My parents fled, when you ate her," Hannibal says, his voice both very low and very strong.

Another wheeze of piggish laughter and Will’s pony shifts its weight, over and over. Will knows. He can feel it. As though it is his own throat pushing the word through, lingering and hanging until there is air enough to fuel it.

_Run._

He does not want to run. He doesn’t. He will not leave this brave young Prince behind. Yet he cannot break his word, it is binding, as all promises are. He frets and he waits, and he watches the white boar lumber around in place, shifting his weight ominously, snorting its cloying and stifling breath around the young Prince who faces him.

“She was _lovely_ ,” he purrs at last. “Such a _tiny_ little _morsel_ of a girl, I remember.” He snorts again and Will watches Hannibal’s fingers curl around his sword harder in his anger. “So _sweet_.”

"Enough," says the Prince, but his voice isn't as strong now. The boar roars maddened laughter, enough to shake the ground beneath their feet. "Take me," Hannibal says, forcing himself to be heard. "Take me and the whole kingdom will weep for what was lost, and you will have your victory as they have their lives."

A curt snort cuts the laughter short.

"What _promises_ are _owed_ to the devoured _dead_?"

The boar turns on his tiny feet, far faster than any could imagine. But Hannibal too is fast, and practiced, and draws his sword with a shout for Will to flee. There is no time to swing but he upturns his blade just as the boar lunges, and blood spatters hot against brave Prince Hannibal, as a piece of the boar's nose is cut away.

The boar's screams fill the clearing, wild with laughter and pain. With a shrill and nervous whinny, Will's horse skitters sideways and he struggles to hold him still.

Even his horse knows better than Will, and tries to heed the word that Will cannot.

_Run._

_Run._

"Run!" he shouts to Hannibal instead, and the Prince looks away from the blood that darkens his blade, to mount Will's skittish horse. Mud flies from beneath panicked hooves, and Hannibal loops his arm around Will's middle.

He looks back to the boar, and holding his sword aloft, shouts, "Devour your nose, instead!"


	2. Chapter 2

Shrieking laughter rings shrill as the little pony races them from the forest. Will keeps him in control but behind him Prince Hannibal holds so tightly that Will has to pace his breathing. He does not want to tell the Prince that he thinks him brave - Hannibal will not believe him. He does not want to tell the Prince that next time he will be at his side when they face the boar - the Prince will tell him no.

Slowly, carefully, picking through the underbrush and broken twigs, they begin to hear the sounds of birds, and feel the breeze on their face that pushes fresh air past their lips.

They’re safe.

“You broke your promise,” Hannibal tells Will quietly, still holding to him as they ride. And Will just shakes his head.

“I did not,” he says. “I promised I would run when you said. I made no such promise about riding.”

Will eases a little when Hannibal hums his acceptance of this, cleverness and honesty combined. He loosens his grip but doesn’t let go, sword across his lap, and cheek once more against Will’s shoulder. When their pony slows, Will walks him steady towards the river, and tells him soft things, kindly things, praising him for his bravery.

“Will you return to the castle now?” Will asks.

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“The boar is still alive, and angrier now than before.”

“You’ll be safer in the castle.”

“Yes,” the Prince agrees, shaking his head. Will’s skin prickles at the sensation, and when finally he shivers, Hannibal hugs him a little more securely, as if to warm him. “He will punish me by punishing others. He’ll take his wrath out on many more than before, and commit atrocities upon them. He’ll make certain that I hear it and know that it’s my fault. No,” he says, “I won’t go home until it’s done.”

By the water’s edge, their pony snorts and ducks his head to crop the sweet green grasses and nuzzle among the reeds. Will slides from his back, with a little reluctance, and looks to Hannibal, cradling his arm.

“You’re hurt!”

“I’m not.”

“Let me see.”

“It’s only a scratch,” the Prince says, dismounting to the other side of the pony who now bereft of boys, clops closer to the water’s edge.

“Let me see,” Will insists again, ducking beneath the pony’s head to get to the Prince as he sets a knee to the bank of the river. Gingerly, Hannibal pulls the sleeve of his shirt up to reveal a bloody deep cut. Perhaps he was caught by a tusk, perhaps something else entirely. Will frowns, and sets a gentle hand to the Prince’s shoulder before standing up and returning at a brisk pace to the woods.

Prince Hannibal washes the worst of the blood away, watching as it seeps into the water in tendrils and strands, and then vanishes like smoke in the air.

He failed.

He did not kill the boar, but instead heeded his friend’s words to run and ran, like a coward, like a little boy. He did not stand tall like a Prince, he had not slain the boar as he had intended. What kind of a leader was he if he could not even do that?

Footsteps startle him to straighten his shoulders and narrow his eyes, but it is only Will, and when he kneels next to the Prince, no mind or worry for the damp soil, he sets some clean moss against his injury.

“To help it heal,” Will tells him.

Hannibal's brow creases and his lips twitch as reluctantly, he lets Will press the moss against his wound. Cool and damp, it eases the fire beneath his skin. Thick and soft, it soaks his blood and slows it. Even Hannibal's heart settles from its fear and rage.

"How do you know of this?" Hannibal asks. "Are you a witch?"

"No," Will laughs, and under his fingertips, the Prince's pulse - soft as butterfly wings - begins to speed again. "I want to be a doctor."

"A doctor," Hannibal says. "That's very brave."

"Says the Prince who fought the boar."

"Says he," agrees Hannibal, and for the first time, Will sees him smile. Not just a ghost of it, not across his own shoulder, but real and true and so lovely that Will must remind himself to keep pressure on the moss. The Prince's eyes crinkle in the corners. Will likes that. "And..."

"And?"

"You made me braver," Hannibal tells him, not without a little guilt. "I knew that he would come for you, and I won't allow that."

"I won't allow him to come for you," Will says. He settles to his hip in the sweet soft grass, and holds Prince Hannibal's arm in his lap. "So..."

"So?"

"We'd better fight him together, then," says Will, and Hannibal's fingers curl softly closed. "Since we make each other braver."

The Prince looks to this boy he met not hours before, a boy who stopped him and asked not for riches or splendor, not for name or title or land, but to help. To come with Hannibal on his quest and help, knowing only that he was a Prince, and a boy, and that he would be scared, despite how brave he is.

He looks to this boy who holds the Prince’s arm in his lap, uncaring for the mess the blood makes, who holds moss against it that he had gone to seek and bring back just for him.

Perhaps they do make each other braver, bolder, stronger. Perhaps they make each other better. Prince Hannibal knows, now, that they cannot part without finishing this quest together, and he will not seek to make Will go again.

“I don’t know how,” Hannibal says after a moment. “I don’t know how to defeat him. He’s too strong.”

“No,” Will tells him gently. “No, he is only strong because we believe him to be. He is a lazy boar, he waits for children to come seeking and then he torments them in his forest. He does not hunt, he does not work for his food or shelter, he takes it because we have given it to him - because we, as the people of this land, let him have it.”

Will’s smile grows larger, his eyes brighter at the revelation. “We have to believe that we are stronger than he, we have to find something that will make him quake that is not sword or bow or axe. Something that will make him small. Something that will make him realize that this is not his forest to poison.”

For a moment more, the Prince's countenance is somber. He looks between Will's eyes, blue as cloudless summer sky. He looks to his smile, bright as the sun when it makes shadows so small they cannot be seen. Hannibal's heart beats faster, galloping swift, until finally a laugh pushes free from him and he covers his face with his other hand.

"Do you think it's silly?" Will asks, a little afraid. He is only a boy, not a Prince or a doctor. But Hannibal shakes his head and grins at him.

"No," he says. "I think you're cleverer than I could have imagined."

Will's cheeks warm from the praise.

"What do we have that he doesn't?" the Prince asks, leaning closer, so near their knees are touching, and then Will's heart beats faster too. "A sword, a horse, a castle too..."

"None of those are any good to us. We saw him beat them already."

Hannibal frowns in thought. What does he have that he didn't before?

Will lifts the moss from his arm, a scar left where before was a wound.

"I have you," Hannibal says suddenly, eyes blinking wide.

"You did. You do."

"I made you wait instead of facing him together. You said yourself," the Prince exclaims, "he is alone. But we - we are not!"

“No,” Will replies, smiling as he sets the moss to the river and lets it float away. “No, we’re not. We never will be again.”

They have little time to waste. The boar will seek and call for children to come, to punish Hannibal and make him pay for the injury he caused. But both the boys are tired, they both need rest and food, and the pony has settled by the water already, content to crop the grass and drink his fill.

They decide to stay a little, just a while, to share a small meal of fresh bread and bright green apples and rest on the grass looking at the sun. That, too, gives them strength. The boar would be weakened by the glow, would hiss and shriek at the sun. It’s why he has made his lair so filthy with dust and dark and stifling air. He doesn’t want anything to penetrate it.

They lie and they talk, they point out clouds to each other that have shapes of animals or cities or spires within. And moment by moment they grow more and more drowsy, and let their eyelids droop and their little bodies curl together in rest. Each boy outstretches an arm where they lay facing, to provide a pillow beneath the other’s head.

“You’re very brave,” Hannibal says to Will, after a time has passed, his voice a low and familiar murmur. “I told you where I find my courage, to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Where do you find yours?”

Will shakes his head. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t think himself courageous. He only did what was right, when his heart beat fast, and bade him save the Prince from wandering unwitting into the woods. Hannibal lifts a hand and twists a finger through one of Will’s unruly curls. The soft tug sends a shiver through Will that moves them a little closer, a little nearer, pressed safe against the other.

Finally Will speaks, with a small but earnest smile. “If you’re protecting everyone else, then someone needs to protect you.”

Hannibal blinks, again startled by the wisdom of the boy who found him, the boy who fearlessly rode with him, the boy who saved his life. So close they come that their brows touch together. So near they nuzzle that the tips of their noses brush the other’s cheek.

“I did not mean for you to be part of this,” Hannibal whispers.

“You didn’t,” laughs Will. “You didn’t at all.”

“I did not mean for you to risk yourself.”

“You didn’t,” Will says. “You didn’t at all. I chose to go.”

“And if you hadn’t…”

“And if I hadn’t…”

Hannibal’s lashes settle to his cheeks, and their lips press softly together.

It feels as though the entire forest sings in that moment, as though the wind picks up the leaves to better let them see, as though the sun warms just a bit more against the meadow the boys lay on, as though the river sings brighter in its support of them.

“But I had,” Will laughs, warm against Hannibal’s lips. “I had and I’m here. We both are.”

“Yes.”

“And we will defeat him together.”

“Yes.”

“And neither of us will ever be alone again.”

“Never,” the Prince promises. “I’ll need you still, afterward, once the land is safe again.”

“Me?” Will laughs. “But you’re a Prince.”

Hannibal kisses him again, on his cheek this time. “Princes can’t rule alone. I will need a wise advisor. I can make you a prince, too, and then we’ll never be apart.”

Will recalls that there has been no word among the villagers of a royal family, not in a very long time, and Hannibal himself told the boar they were gone. Will’s heart aches as he looks to the far-away castle, and imagines Prince Hannibal there alone. No family. No friends - at least none that Will has ever heard about, among the villagers’ whispering. He too is an orphan and he knows that loneliness well. And the castle itself is very vast, much too big for one boy to rule alone. But perhaps together, with their bravery and cleverness, perhaps together they can restore peace to the kingdom.

“It will get dark soon,” Will tells the Prince, snuggling a little closer. “We should go back and face him.”

“We should.”

Will smiles and squeezes Hannibal’s hand before he sits up, pulling the reluctant Prince with him.

“We will,” he corrects, whistling for their fat little pony to trot over, content from a few hours of rest, good grass and clean water. “And this time we will win.”


	3. Chapter 3

The woods are dark, darker than they were before. The sun has disappeared beyond the far-away castle, and around them, the shadows of branches stretch like grasping fingers on monstrous arms. Their stalwart pony finds his footing, hoof by careful hoof.

Will decides his name is Winston, named for a friend he knew long ago.

The Prince sits snug against Will’s back, not stiff and regal like before. Their bodies fit together, warm as a blanket and just as soft, and their hearts beat in time with each other. Hannibal’s sword is sheathed so he can better keep hold of Will, and Will knows that he will hold him after this, too. They will share kisses that make the sun seem brighter. They will share hugs that last until they laugh.

And they will laugh, often. That, Will knows with certainty.

“Is it weak if I tell you I’m scared?” the Prince asks. “More scared than I’ve ever been, hunting any other boar in these woods.”

Will gives the question consideration, and finally shakes his head.

“No,” he answers. “It takes courage to admit that, just like it takes courage to do what’s right. If you didn’t feel anything, you’d be akin to the boar. He can’t know fear because he doesn’t know love. And you have to love something to be afraid to lose it.”

Hannibal smiles against his shoulder, and already feels less afraid. “You’ll be a good prince,” he tells Will, and Will’s cheeks blossom warm at his words.

He has never thought himself a prince, nor a pauper. Will has always just been Will, with his love for animals and all things green, rich chocolate and too-ripe berries. He wonders if Hannibal is right, and he will be a good prince. Or if he will simply be a boy, living in a new home.

What makes a prince a prince?

More than a castle, of that Will is certain.

He can feel Hannibal’s arms tighten around him as they ride closer and closer to the den of the beast once more. The same cloying smell, and reek of fresh blood. The same emptiness and terrifying silence. 

Will thinks of their laughter again, of their smiles and the things they will do together, two princes in a palace of their own. It helps make the silence easier to bear, knowing it will be filled. 

No voice greets them this time, no teasing and no laughter. No heavy filthy breath and frightful white coat. The boar is not here.

The pony's steps are uneasy as their hearts, each mud-soft clop moving thicker and heavier as they near the clearing. There is blood dried brown across the grey dead grass, where Hannibal cut through the boar's flat snorting nose. With the sun evading them moment by moment beyond the horizon, the woods shiver in the wind, as chill as the two boys on their horse.

"Perhaps we should wait," suggests the Prince. "Perhaps until morning."

It's Will this time who is as ardent as Prince Hannibal was before. "He'll hunt then, he may be hunting now."

More children hurt, snatched from warm beds and families who love them. More children whose sobs will be silenced, their bodies made motionless with fear. No, they must press on. It must end tonight.

"Go," the Prince says, as if he can hear Will's thoughts - as if he can feel Will's heart beat harder where his hand presses to Will's chest. "Go and we will find him, and tell him that we aren't afraid anymore."

The blood smears, then drips, then all but disappears, the deeper they go into the dying forest. Around them hang limp branches and heavy cobwebs, things left behind by the fleeing creatures that once thrived here and made this forest grow. The air is heavier here, and they both grow sleepy with it, rubbing their eyes and shaking their heads to stay awake. Hannibal nods against Will and gently he wakes him up again.

It is a trick, a cruel trick of the sick forest and the creature within it. It isn’t real if they don’t let it be.

“He is a coward to hide in his lair,” Will whispers. “Not even anger will drive him out, not even pride. We are already stronger -”

“You brought a _friend_ this time,” the voice sneers from behind them, around and above them. Will wheels the little pony around but they see not a trace of white bristle, not a flicker of a tail. “ _Two_ foolish boys _here_ , for me to _properly_ enjoy.”

It's a very dangerous magic that makes their limbs so heavy. Will has seen it before, when a boy or girl eats or drinks something enchanted. He's tried to wake them, to no avail. Will can only imagine that those who sleep through their demise, speared by the boar's horrid tusks, are the lucky ones.

He clutches Hannibal's arm as the Prince begins to slip, and shakes him as the pony turns in circles.

"Hannibal," Will whispers. "Prince, wake up!"

He stirs, dark eyes blinking slow beneath his tousled golden hair. Will meets his gaze, turned nearly sideways on his horse, and he clasps Hannibal around his middle.

"Stay with me," he says. "I need you."

The words are like a splash of cold water, and Hannibal narrows his eyes, jaw set hard. He reaches for his sword but does not draw it. He doesn't need it.

He has Will.

"Show yourself, cowardly pig!" the Prince cries out loud, his voice swallowed into the thick air.

"Coward?" answers the boar. " _Coward?_ That _isn't_ very nice of you. You who ran from me. You who _tries_ to outnumber me now. _She_ ran _too_ , you know. It made her taste all the _sweeter_ for it."

"Mischa did not run," the Prince declares. Will has heard Hannibal say the name before in his sleep. "She never would. She did not fear you, and neither do we!"

“You _all_ run,” the boar promises. “All little children get _scared_ , all little _children_ start to _cry_. And _oh_ those _tears_ , sweet _silky_ tears -”

“You hide behind your darkness and your cave, your magic and your size but you are more scared than any of us,” Will calls to him, his voice not as strong as it had been - he, too, is growing sleepy. He, too, feels that call to just lie down and let it happen. Because how bad could it be, truly? Just a second of pain and then nothing else. No responsibilities, no fears, no growing up and growing old… just calm nothing.

It’s so tempting, with everything he’s lost.

“You are scared because you have no one,” he says, as the boar's bristles rattle in reminder. He too has been alone. He too has had no one.

But the warmth of Hannibal against his back is a greater security than the peace of sleep that would come after pain. Will isn't alone, not anymore. He is loved, and allowed to love in turn. And when Hannibal dismounts the horse, Will goes with him. Embarrassed by his fear, but finding strength in Hannibal, Will takes his hand.

Ashamed of his doubt, but finding certainty in Will, Hannibal slides their fingers together.

"You could face one of us, alone - you may even defeat us," Hannibal says, turning slowly to seek through the columns of black-trunked trees for a flash of sickly white. "But you can't harm us together."

"Talk, talk, _talk_ ," snarls the boar, as both boys stumble back and their pony jolts aside beneath a spray of dark soil. They keep their hands together, squeezing firmly, as the boar stands above them. Its stinking breath pools hot and thick around their faces. Saliva drips sticky from its jaws. Half its nose cut free, the boar's snout is a malformed hole, and beyond its maw and tusks, beady blue eyes narrow, pale as ice. "I'm going to _enjoy_ hearing you two _weep_. Will you cry for me _now_? Or must I _make_ you?"

Will closes his eyes, breath coming in short bursts as the boar strokes a tusk along his cheek, the bony dagger of it taller than his head.

"Two boys with _no_ family to _speak_ of. Two boys that _no one_ will _miss_. Two boys that _no_ one _loves_ and whose _tears_ no one will hear but the _other_."

Hannibal makes a sound, not in fear but in anger, and clasps Will’s hand tighter. They shift around so they’re back to back, eyes on the boar no matter where he moves.

“Our families may have gone but we have made our own with each other,” he calls out. “He has me and I have him and we are _not_ alone!”

“One of you will leave,” the boar coaxes. “One of them always does. One by one by one _everyone_ trips down the hill and away from the castle, don’t you _see_ , Prince? They leave _you_. They _leave_ because of _you_. And he will as well.”

“I will not!” Will says, holding his sword in one hand and Hannibal’s hand in the other. “I will not leave him, because I love him. I will be there to wipe his tears away, should they come, you will not get a single drop!”

With a roar of shrieking piggish laughter, the boar snorts his delight. His breath smothers them, like hands pushed over their noses, like blankets pressed into their mouths. The sickly squish of mud spreads beneath his hooves. His bristles shiver over unyielding muscle as if they were icicles, deadly sharp.

"She _screamed_ for you," the boar snarls at Hannibal.

"Because she loved you until the end,” Will whispers.

"Your _father_ abandoned _you_ ," laughs the boar, circling to Will instead.

Hannibal reaches back to grasp his fingers, to remind him that he's there. In a low voice, the Prince tells Will, "He never would. You were tricked, you know that, not left behind. You were lost because you trusted. Because your heart is good."

Will frowns at the boar but doesn't waver. The Prince's words - like sun - pierce the boar's icy chill. The great beast shrieks displeasure, anger, hate. His hooves drive furrows into the earth. His clashing tusks throw sparks to the blackened sky.

"What _good_ has this Prince _ever_ done for you! Safe in his castle, _far_ away. Why did so _many_ suffer while he was _safe_?"

Will swallows hard and makes his voice harder too. He speaks with steel sharper than his blade. "What happened before matters little, so long as what we do now is right."

"And you," roars the creature, his bristles cracking, melting to water beneath the warmth of their words. "Little _Prince_. What _good_ to _you_ is a worthless boy like Will? _Useless_ and _broken_ , _used_ and _filthy_."

"What happened before matters not at all," Hannibal says. "A good heart can be sullied by no man nor pig, but only by our deeds."

“You’re _naive_!”

“I will learn,” Hannibal says.

“You’re too _young_.”

“I will grow,” Will replies.

“You are only as good as _what we tell you_ you are!”

“You’re wrong!” they both yell.

There is a spark, like a twitch of a lighter, and Will turns into Hannibal’s embrace and holds him, ducking his head against his shoulder as Hannibal does the same. Around them come the screams, the shrieks and sobs and cries of little children in pain, finally released from the bowels of the creature holding their souls captive. Around them falls a sudden rain, warm and clean and heavy, of tears that wash away the filth the boar has brought into the forest, slicking leaves green once more, washing the dirt and dust from the ground to reveal the forest floor below.

Before them shrieks a creature tiny and weak, dirtied by mud and held back by its own fear of them. No more cruel words come from him, no more savageries lash them like whips and leave scars on their skin. Just a runty piglet, squealing in his fear and displeasure, foot caught in a long stem of grass at the edge of a meadow.

Hannibal’s eyes sharpen. He loosens his arm from around Will’s shoulders, and holds his hand instead. As he steps closer to the little pig, pale but pinkening from frigid white, he lifts his blade.

And he blinks, as Will stops him with a hand against his wrist.

“We must be better than he was,” Will says. He has heard from the market the screaming of piglets, so much like the pained and fearful noises of children. He has heard them, too, silenced. “He’s helpless now, and small.”

“And he could grow to become evil again.”

“What happened before matters little, so long as what we do now is right,” Will tells the Prince. “If he knows kindness instead of cruelty, love instead of hate…”

“We can break the spell,” Prince Hannibal says, “and perhaps he’ll grow to be good, instead.”

He lowers his sword as Will crouches, to free the little pig from his snare. Cradling the creature against his chest, he laughs when it snorts and puffs against his throat, and the shadows recede from the forest, brightened by the joy in his voice. Prince Hannibal watches them both, and his anger softens, that darkness too giving way to love. He spreads his fingers through Will’s hair, and grasps his curls.

“Will,” Hannibal says, his voice deeper now, resonant and warm. He withdraws his hand and folds his fingers in front of him. “Are you unwell?”

Will blinks his eyes open, having fallen asleep at his Thai practice, pen still in hand, trailing a twitching line against the page. He watches Hannibal from beneath his curls, feels a little too hot and wonders if maybe he is sick. Around him, the early evening sun outlines him against the kitchen and the smooth wall, and Will knows he merely fell asleep when he got warm, and didn’t move when he got hotter. He smiles, just a little, and presses a hand to his face to stifle a yawn.

Before him, the work unfinished but well drawn before sleep took hold of him, Will has copied diligently the words for farm animals over and over on his paper. He’d stopped on _hog_.

“When did you come home?” he asks softly.

“Only a few minutes ago,” Hannibal tells him. He lifts his hand to stroke sun-hot curls again, and looks over Will’s shoulder at his work. The script is legible and accurate, but more of interest are the little characters outside his study. Stick figures with swords and black-leafed trees, a pig and a horse of equal size.

Will notices at the same time as Hannibal, and slyly, slowly slides his folded arms over his paper to hide his secret story. With a hum, and a gentle pat, Hannibal does not pry, but steps away to allow Will his privacy. Returning to the small kitchen, he begins to set away the groceries. “Next time we go to the store, we might find softer pencils and a more agreeable notepad.”

“No,” Will says, shyly. “It’s fine.”

“It is,” Hannibal agrees. “I enjoy sketching too, though it’s been years since I’ve had the time. Perhaps we may sit together and do so, if it would please you.”

Will’s cheeks flush in delight and he swallows before nodding. He would love to see Hannibal draw, as calm and precise and lovely in that as he is in cooking, as he is when he folds their laundry and lets Will help, as he is when he writes Will’s Thai practice on a sheet for him to work on. Will shifts in his seat and stretches long and hums before curling his arms beneath his cheek and smiling at Hannibal.

“Do you dream when you sleep?” Will asks, and Hannibal pauses before offering an answer.

“Sometimes. I’ve told you about some of my dreams, do you remember?”

“Yeah,” Will says, pushing himself to sit up, folding the pages carefully to hide his silly stories. It felt so real, every single moment in the meadow and the scary forest, every scream and howl and all the awful words stinging like nettles. He had woken up feeling Hannibal’s hand in his own, still. “Do you think any of them will come true?”

Hannibal never answers quickly, unless there is obvious reason to do so - an injury or a fright, or when they’re practicing with their rubber knives. He considers the question and hums, and Will hides his smile to hear the sound of it.

“I believe that if the dream is something desirable, then we should use it to guide our actions and decisions both. And if the dream is one that is unpleasant or frightening, we should learn from it, and make effort to disallow it from becoming reality.”

Will is grateful that Hannibal doesn’t pry or press; he isn’t sure he could make himself tell Hannibal what he dreamed, when it seems so childish in waking. But Hannibal’s words now warm him, as did the Prince’s words in his dream. Love and bravery, a family and a home of their own to share. Hannibal lifts his eyes from where he lays out their dinner, meeting Will’s gaze before Will turns away again with a grin.

“Come,” says the Prince, and Will’s cheeks warm even more. “Clever Will, we will work together.”

Will grins, ducking his head before he slips from his seat and trots around to the other side of the counter to accept the sword handed to him by his brave Prince. They may be vanquishing vegetables, but they are doing it together. 

As they will do everything, Will is sure. Because he promised, and he always keeps his word.

**Author's Note:**

>  **"Woolgathering"**  
>  — _(adjective)_ It is defined by the indulgence in idle daydreaming. Woolgathering is the most delicious intellectual experience we submit ourselves to. _Do not feel guilty for falling into an infinite trance about your loved one or life. Seek refuge in your imagination, nobody can interfere there._


End file.
